


half bad

by buddhaghost



Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Childhood Friends, Good friend John B, Hurt/Comfort, JJ (Outer Banks) Needs a Hug, JJ is touch averse, Panic Attacks, Pre-Canon, Second person POV, Underage Drinking, could be read as pre-slash maybe, john b is touch starved, they all got issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:47:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24590293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buddhaghost/pseuds/buddhaghost
Summary: You’re five years old when your mama leaves. You don’t really remember much about it; but what you do remember from that day is this: chasing after a car as it spits dirt back at you in its haste to get away. Sobbing as strong hands, big enough to wrap around your skinny forearm completely, harshly jerk you back. Your father’s eyes are wild as he spins you to face him, his face red with fury as he matches your screams with an even louder voice, words sounding dark and demonic as he spits them at you. He looks like a monster, and you can’t help but scream louder, suddenly scared of this creature before you. His open palm cracks against your face, stunning you into silence, and you stare at him with wide eyes, tears silently slipping down your cheeks, unable to hear him over the roaring in your ears.“Quit fucking crying. It’s your fault she’s gone,” is all he says, before turning and heading back inside.***or; some scenes from JJ's life
Relationships: JJ & John B. Routledge, JJ & Kiara & Pope & John B. Routledge
Comments: 19
Kudos: 71





	half bad

**Author's Note:**

> second person POV from JJ's perspective. kind of similar to my work 'hearts beating in synchrony' but more focused on john b and jj's relationship.
> 
> warning for descriptions of child abuse. nothing more graphic than canon (I think) but please let me know if you want to know more before reading!

You’re five years old when your mama leaves. You don’t really remember much about it; just the slight brush of lips across your forehead, the flowery smell of her perfume surrounding you, the back of a tanned leg, the swing of a skirt as she stands and turns away from you.

You don’t remember much about your mama in general. Visualizing her face is like chasing a dream; you know it, but it escapes you, like water trickling through your fingers. The sound of her voice has long been replaced with other things, but you like to think that it sounded like bells in an afternoon breeze. You can’t even remember her touch, but when you lie in bed at night, curled in a tight ball beneath your covers, you imagine that it was light, caring, playful. Unfamiliar. Never with the intention to hurt.

What you do remember from that day is this: chasing after a car as it spits dirt back at you in its haste to get away. Sobbing as strong hands, big enough to wrap around your skinny forearm completely, harshly jerk you back, and you scream with pain when your shoulder pops. Your father’s eyes are wild as he spins you to face him, his face red with fury as he matches your screams with an even louder voice, words sounding dark and demonic as he spits them at you. He looks like a monster, and you can’t help but scream louder, suddenly scared of this creature before you, because this is _not your daddy_. His open palm cracks against your face, stunning you into silence, and you stare at him with wide eyes, tears silently slipping down your cheeks, unable to hear him over the roaring in your ears.

“Quit fucking crying. It’s your fault she’s gone,” is all he says, before turning and heading back inside.

Your cheek was numb at first, but later that night, it is on fire, and your shoulder still throbs deeply. It hurts to take your shirt off, and when you do you see that the skin where your daddy grabbed you has turned a dark purple, almost black. It looks like a shadow on you, and has spread to encompass your shoulder, and you hurriedly throw a clean shirt on so you don’t have to look at it. You know you need ice – it’s something that you put on your knees when you fall on them, and this pain in your shoulder and on your cheek feels kind of similar, if not worse, so you figure ice might help now.

You tip toe to your door and swing it open, peeking out, glancing around in case your daddy is still awake. He scared you today, more than your mama leaving, and you don’t want to encounter the monster again. Luckily, you see him, sprawled out on the couch, eyes closed. There’s still a bottle in his hand. As quietly as you can, you creep out of your room, to the kitchen, and pull open the freezer. It’s pretty empty, but you reach for the old bag of peas, which is coated in freezer burn and is so cold that it hurts your fingers, but you know not to make a sound. Quickly as you came, you scurry back to your room, closing the door before leaping into bed.

As you press the peas to your shoulder, which you’ve decided needs the ice more than your cheek, you can’t help it as tears well up and slip down your face. In your mind is a constant replay of your daddy’s words; _it’s your fault she left. Its’ your fault it’s your fault it’s your fault._

“Stop fucking crying,” you whisper to yourself, the swear feeling strange as your lips shape to it. Strange, but satisfying.

***

You’re seven years old when you meet John B. You also meet Pope and Kiara, and the four of you are pretty much inseparable from there on out, but John B is the first. The both of you are in a small group called ‘advanced help for reading’, though neither of you really know or care what that means. It’s just the two of you and a few other kids you recognize from around the island, and Ms. H, who is young and smells like bubblegum and is always smiling, except when you say some of the grown-up words that your daddy uses all the time. You had thought she would be impressed, because they’re grown-up words and you’re still just a kid, but her lips press closed and her eyes narrow a bit and you’ve grown quite used to hearing the words “JJ, keep that language out of school please,” in her measured tone.

John B is different. The first time you use a grown-up word, he turns to you with wide eyes and a toothy grin and says “Damn! My dad never lets me say any of that shit.” And you both laugh while Ms. H purses her lips, kindly requests that you two refrain from that language while at school, and then asks you to read something she wrote out for you.

Another thing that makes John B different is he doesn’t laugh when you can’t read something, when your ears burn hot and all you can think about is the eyes on you, the gazes of Ms. H and the other kids boring into you. When your tongue gets tangled and heavy in your mouth and you imagine that they’re laughing, or thinking to themselves how dumb can you be, even though that doesn’t make any sense because they’re all here in this ‘advanced help reading’ class with you, which means that they’re probably just as dumb as you. But you don’t think John B is dumb, not even when he stumbles over certain letters and words so often that you’re reminded of a skipping record, or when he shouts in frustration that this is _impossible_ , and _how can anyone read that dumb sentence, anyways_. You notice that he only really stumbles over his words when he’s reading Ms. H’s sentences, never when he’s angry, or happy, or when he’s using the words that Ms. H doesn’t like.

Another thing that you notice about John B is that he is always moving; bouncing in his seat, drumming his fingers, running at full speed during recess. You don’t think he could sit still if his life depended on it. And he’s always _touching_. He’ll grab your hand and pull you along, press his bony shoulder to yours when you sit side by side, grab your hair playfully. At first, it really scares you, the feeling of someone’s skin on yours, because for the past few years, touch has meant pain and even though you’re only seven, you’re so tired of hurting.

But John B’s touches are different. It’s like he can’t help himself, and while they’re not always gentle, you can tell that there’s a different meaning behind them. John B touches you like he thinks you’ll disappear, like he’s worried you’re a shadow and he needs to confirm that you’re real. You can tell by the desperation that comes out when he thinks you can’t see, normally when you’re in the process of turning away from him, directing your attention elsewhere. It’s so unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, being sought after the way John B’s hands seek yours, so you put up with it, for the most part.

But one afternoon, you snap at him. School is out and he jumps onto your back, mouth already moving a mile a minute, but your sides are still tender from your dad’s temper from two nights ago and stars of pain bloom in your eyes and before you know it, you’ve pushed John B to the ground. You’re yelling, trying to ignore the shakiness of your body and the trembling of your hands, and John B is looking up at you with an expression you’ve never seen on his face; fear.

“Sorry, JJ,” and his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it, even quieter than the whisper-voice you use to talk to each other in reading group.

Your ears are burning and you feel like you should apologize back, but nobody’s really ever apologize to you before and you don’t know what to do, so you just stare at John B with blurry vision and try to regain control of your breathing. Your heart feels like a rabbit trying to escape and your emotions are twisting around, too fast to identify, and you watch as John B clambers to his feet and stands in front of you. His arms twitch, like he wants to reach out but thinks better of it, and instead starts talking in a low, soothing voice.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says. “I get scared sometimes too. Well, a lot, like when my dad’s gone for a while or I have a bad dream or –“

“’M not scared,” you force out, even though your heart is still hammering and your skin feels like its buzzing, like bees are crawling all over you and you _know_ that John B wants to reach out and hug you because that’s what he _does_ , but you think you might physically die if someone touches you.

“Okay,” John B says easily. And he changes the subject, talking instead about his dad and the crazy adventures John B wants to go on one day, and you listen to him paint pictures with his words, only stuttering a little bit when he gets too excited. And eventually, your breathing evens out and your heart beat slows and your vision clears and then all you can feel is shame, because you _pushed_ John B, and for a moment there he had looked so scared, like you were going to walk away and leave him there on the ground. And you’re confused, because your dad pushes you around and always walks away, but there’s a tugging in your chest and you just know that you can’t walk away from John B like your dad walks away from you.

So, you let John B’s words wash over you as you both start walking again. John B is still talking fast, nervous, tripping over a word every so often, and you think you should apologize, should explain your actions. That’s what your teacher, Ms. T, says to do when things go wrong; use ‘I feel’ statements. ‘I feel angry because…’

But you don’t know how to identify what you feel, and you’ve never heard an actual adult use an ‘I feel’ sentence, and you think your dad would make you feel all sorts of bad if you tried to use one on him. But John B apologized when _you_ were the one to push him down, which you guess makes sense because you always apologize to your dad before he hits you. Somewhere deep inside you know that this is wrong, this is not how things work. You want to use an ‘I feel’ sentence. You want to explain. But you can’t – you don’t know how.

***

You’re ten years old when you first seek out John B after a fight with your dad. Normally, you’re able to get away and lock yourself in your room after the worst of it, crouch in the corner opposite the door, hunched over yourself and trying to take small, silent breaths even though all you want to do is cry. You listen as your dad rages outside your room, listen to his heavy footsteps as they shake the house, his drunken words fueled by whatever you’ve done wrong this time. _Stupid boy, ungrateful, waste of space. Your fault._

But tonight is different. You don’t know what it was, but this time you are sure that he isn’t going to stop, that he’s actually going to kill you. A different kind of energy lies behind his swinging fists, a darker look gleams in his eye. In the past, he’s looked angry, annoyed, disappointed. But tonight, he looks demonic, and once he has you on the ground and _won’t stop kicking_ , once you feel something in your chest give and you choke on your scream, you know, with startling clarity, that if you don’t get away now, he’s going to kill you.

There’s a pause; maybe he’s getting a drink, maybe he’s worn out, maybe he’s getting his belt; you don’t care, and you don’t intend to stick around to find out. With every ounce of strength that you have, you roll out of the tight ball you had pulled yourself into in an attempt to protect your more sensitive areas, and push yourself up, gasping as your chest screams in protest with the movement. But adrenaline sings in your blood, pushing you forwards, and in a moment you have your feet beneath you and you’re running, tearing out of your house, faster than you’ve ever run when you race with Kiara down the beach, or when you and Pope are trying to catch the best waves.

It’s dark out, and the air is like a cool slap to the face when you push your way out the sagging screen door. You hear your dad behind you, screaming something, but he doesn’t give chase, and his voice fades as you force yourself faster, desperate to get away.

You don’t really have a route in mind, but you soon recognize that your legs are taking you on the path to John B’s house. It’s familiar, one you’ve done thousands of times, so it’s no wonder that you come here on autopilot. Because all you want to do right now is curl up in a ball and go to sleep, and you’ve spent enough time at the _Chateau_ to know that the pull-out couch is a million times more comfortable than your bed at home ever could be.

By the time you see the light illuminating from the _Chateau_ ’s windows, the adrenaline has faded, making each step more painful than the last. Your whole body feels tender, brittle, like you might break apart with the slightest touch, but you grit your teeth as you make your way to what you know is John B’s window. You’re not sure if Big John is home, but you don’t really want to risk it. John B knowing your situation is scary enough; you don’t need an _adult_ in your business, too.

There’s no light in John B’s room, but he appears pretty much moments after you tap the window, face pale and eyes almost glowing in the moonlight. He looks scared, until his eyes land on you, and his expression morphs into one of concern.

“JJ?” You see him mouth, before understanding lights up in his eyes and he holds up a finger in the universal ‘one second’ gesture. You sag against the side of the house, wrapping an arm around your ribs, and moments later you hear footsteps crunching towards you. You react immediately, eyes flying open and arms coming up defensively, but it’s just John B. He stops his approach after your reaction, leaving a few feet between the two of you, though you can tell that he wants to come up help. You’re sure he’d carry you if you let him. And while you want to relax around John B, to close the distance and lean against him, let him take you inside, the thought of someone touching you right now terrifies you.

“What happened?” John B asks, voice soft. You bite the inside of your cheek and shrug, feeling your throat tighten as your eyes get watery. _Don’t cry, quit fucking crying_.

“Can I come inside?” You say, rather than explaining.

“Of course,” John B says in a rush, eyes scanning up and down your body, taking in your hunched posture, your arms wrapped around your middle. “Do you need –“

“No!” You say forcefully, straightening up before gasping at the pain that shoots through you when you do. “No, I can do it.”

So, the two of you make your way around the side of the house, to the front door. It’s a slow process, with you using the house for support while John B hovers just to the side of you, not touching but hands fluttering like all he wants to do is help. And you want him to, more than anything, because John B is safe and would never hurt you, but you’re just not ready for that. John B tells you that his dad isn’t home, which unfortunately doesn’t surprise you, so the two of you go right on in.

You’re secretly thankful that Big John isn’t home, because the moment you push through the screen door, you collapse right onto the couch, eyes falling closed as your body finally gets to rest. John B hovers over you, talking rapidly, but you can’t bring yourself to pay attention to what he’s saying. It’s only when you hear him leave and come back do you open your eyes to see that he’s brought you an icepack.

Sluggishly, you take it from him, and stick it under your shirt, hissing at the contact. John B is silent for a moment, before saying, “You should lie down. Do you want my bed? Do you think you can move there?”

You shake your head, already moving to a horizontal position on the couch. It hasn’t even been pulled out to make it into a bed, but you sink into the worn cushions and breath in the slightly musty, slightly salty scent of it. “Too tired,” you say, your words slurring slightly with sleep. “Here’s fine.”

John B is still for a moment, before he leaves again. You figure he’s gone to his own room, back to his own bed, and you’re slightly surprised when he comes back and gently lays a blanket over you. You open your eyes to see he’s also brought a pillow and a blanket for himself, which he lays out on the ground next to the couch. You watch curiously as he stretches out parallel to you, making himself comfortable on the perpetually sandy floor.

“What’re you doing?” You ask, peering down at him as you pull the blanket higher and position the ice differently, wincing as you brush over a particularly tender spot.

“Keeping an eye on you,” John B says, voice serious. “You let me know if you need anything. I mean it. I’ll be right here.”

You think about this for a minute, before a small grin cracks out on your face. “How about a fat stack of pancakes and a new board?”

John B rolls his eyes fondly. “Would if I could,” he says lightly, before his tone gets serious again. It’s strange, you think, looking at him. He looks much older than his ten years, even with his messy hair and sleep shirt that you’re pretty sure is just an old t-shirt of Big John’s. And he looks so _goddam sincere_ with what he says next, “I’m serious, JJ. You need anything at all, and I’ll be there. You’re my best friend, it’s my job to help you.”

He’s so earnest, eyes bright and serious and his face confident and young and naïve, and you find yourself thinking what you’d do if the situations were switched. If John B was the one painted in bruises, curled up on your couch after having ran all the way from home. The thought sends a spark through you –anger, defensiveness, protectiveness, you’re not sure—but whatever it is, it’s so strong that you have to look away. Because you’re scared, suddenly, of the fierce feelings running through you, of what you would do if John B was in trouble. You saw it on his face; a look of devotion, of easy acceptance, and you know he was telling the truth, that he would do anything, if you asked. And you’re scared, because you know you’d do the same for him.

***

You’re twelve when you have your first sip of beer. It’s not exactly an unfamiliar drink to you; your house is constantly littered in half-emptied bottles and lukewarm six-packs that your dad drinks throughout the day, before moving on to harder stuff at night. It would be easy of you to swipe some of his; in fact, it’s almost expected, the son of a drunk, drinking to forget. But you’re not _that_ much of a cliché, not yet, at least. When you’re at home, stealing from your dad is normally one of the last things on your mind, just because it is an almost guarantee way to piss him off, if you get caught.

So, while you may have had ample opportunity to sample beer at your own home, you don’t actually get your first taste until a day at the Boneyard, which started innocently enough, with a mix of kids from the island – Kooks and Pogues and tourists alike – surfing and just generally having a good time, but was quickly devolving into a more rambunctious party as older kids start to show up.

Kiara comes back from where she’d been mingling – a skill of hers that marvels you at this point, her ability to talk to anyone about anything – with a victorious grin on her face.

“Look what I got,” she sing-songs, gracefully dropping to the ground in the empty space between you and Pope while simultaneously brandishing a red solo cup filled to the brim with amber-colored liquid.

John B jack-knifes up from his sprawled-out position with his head on Pope’s thigh and legs in your general space. As usual, he seems to be making the effort, consciously or not, to touch everyone in his general vicinity. And you can’t help but notice that he’s gotten taller, legs longer than yours now, and you just wish you’d catch up already, because it’s not fair being the shortest. God, even Kiara is taller than you.

You stop your ruminations about your general lack of height, and instead swoop in to pluck the cup out of Kiara’s hand, snatching it before John B does. “Kie, you’re a goddam queen!” You croon, lifting the cup to the sky. “All hail Queen Kie!”

John B and Pope whoop and crow in victory while everyone else around you goes about their general business. That’s one of the perks of being a pogue – invisibility.

Kiara is grinning as she lunges for the cup, but you jerk back, laughing as you hold it just out of her reach.

“Don’t spill it!” Pope says.

“Please, my good man, I’m the master of smooth hands,” you say, deftly lowering the cup to your lips. “Anyone mind if I have first sip?” You don’t actually wait for a response, because it seems that all three of your friends are gearing up with something to say. Everybody’s a critic.

The beer, which you presume is probably the cheapest kind out there, if Kie was able to get her hands on some, is bubbly, and slides down your throat easily. You make sure to smack your lips obnoxiously as you pass the cup off to Kiara, who has planted her foot on John B’s chest in a pretty effective manner of keeping him at bay as she takes a sip.

“I feel like _Queen Kiara_ , the one who _got us this in the first place_ , should have had the first sip, but whatever,” she says pointedly, before lifting the cup to her own mouth.

“Here, here,” Pope says in agreement, and Kie smiles, pleased as she passes it off to him. Pope makes a show of it, sniffing the liquid and swishing it around in his mouth a bit before swallowing. “Hm… getting the faintest traces of… dare I say, Kook piss?”

You laugh, and honestly have to agree; it does kind of taste like piss. John B has a similar reaction, scrunching his nose as he swallows. “Jesus, I hope this isn’t the good stuff,” he says.

Kie shrugged, grabbing the cup back. “You guys try sucking up to the kooks next time! This was the best I could do.”

You, John B and Pope assure her that she did an amazing job, and she laughs as the three of you compete for the most lavish compliments. The four of you finish the cup quickly, and though you know you haven’t really had enough to really do anything, you still _feel_ drunk. At least, you think. It’s probably more of a combination of the sun and the dehydration from the full day of surfing you’ve just had, but still, everything feels... lighter.

The sun sets, but the four of you hardly even notice, too busy laughing at Kiara’s spot-on impression of the seventh-grade science teacher, complete with his thick southern accent. Pope is about to add his own impression to the mix when John B suddenly jumps to his feet, eyes on a group of older kids a bit further down the beach.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, before taking off without any more of an explanation. You barely have the time to process that your shoulder, which had been pressed against John B’s, feels cold now without him.

“What’s his deal?” Kiara asks, twisting around to watch John B’s retreating back. You watch her watching him, unsure of what to think about the look on her face. It’s… soft, mildly exasperated, because pretty much anything John B does warrants some level of exasperation, but it’s muted with a look of tenderness. You wonder if she looks at you like that, then tell yourself that you don’t care, even though you kind of think you do.

“Maybe he’s getting more beer,” Pope says, unconcerned as he rolls over to lay on his back. “Hey, JJ, that last wave you caught was pretty epic.” He’s referencing the wave that absolutely tossed you like a piece of seaweed. You roll your eyes as Kiara cracks up, throwing a handful of sand at both of them.

“Still light years better than you!” You declare. “Have you even managed to stand up on the board yet?”

“Boys, boys,” Kiara says placatingly, “we all know who the real MVP of the surf is –”

“Me,” the three of you say in unison, then, after a moment, start flinging sand at each other with reckless abandon, each trying to make the other crack. The three of you are so invested in your sand fight that none of you notice when some kid approaches you.

“Um, guys?” He asks, and you pause mid-wind up, where you had been about to stuff a handful of sand down the back of Kiara’s shirt while she was distracted by fending off an attack from Pope. You recognize the kid standing over you from around the cut, notorious for his smoking habits, and he looks only mildly concerned as he points a finger and says, “Isn’t that your buddy?”

The three of you whip around to see where he’s pointing. It’s a fight, and you can’t help but notice that it looks pretty uneven; one guy who’s more or less getting his face smashed in by another, while a few more circle around them. It’s only a matter of time until the rest of the partygoers catch on and start egging the on fight; you would know, because you’ve been part of the circle surrounding brawling teens here before.

You watch for a moment as the kid getting beat on drops to the ground, head hitting the sand in a jarring manner, before your brain short circuits, and then starts firing at rapid speed. Because the kid on the ground, the kid curling up to protect himself from blows raining down on him, is _John B_.

You’ve already closed half the distance between where you’d been sitting and where the fight was taking place, body moving on autopilot. You hear Kiara and Pope swear as they scramble to their feet, chasing behind you, but you don’t bother with slowing down and waiting, instead breaking through the circle around John B and tackling the other boy to the ground right as he’d been gearing up to land another kick on John B’s chest.

You see red as the guy, now beneath you, squirms pathetically, trying to throw you off, but you’ve clearly caught him off guard. Your mouth is open in a snarl, and you don’t hesitate, pulling your hand into a fist and slamming it into the guy’s nose repeatedly. You don’t stop, shrugging off the hands that pull at you. They’re too small to be your dad’s, and too soft, but still, the feeling of someone trying to grab you sets your nerves on fire and you can’t hear anything over the roaring in your ears. There’s movement all around you, but you don’t bother looking up, and you feel more than hear the _crunch_ of the guy’s nose beneath your fist.

It’s then that you notice your hand is warm, wet. The boy beneath you groans, unresponsive as you slow your punches, and you feel deceptively calm as you lift your fist to your eyes. You’re shaking, splattered with blood, and you can’t seem to unclench your fingers. People are still moving all around you, pushing and shoving each other, but you don’t look up. Not until you’ve fallen off to the side, the boy whose nose you just broke scrambling up, sand spraying as he does. He shouts something, his mouth moving as he cups his nose, but you just stare, uncomprehending. Everything is murky, like you’re watching a movie underwater; shapes blurry and sounds muted, and a heavy, crushing weight pressing in at you from all angles.

You sit in the sand, just breathing as the world rushes around you, until you feel two hands on your shoulders, gentle, different from the other touches. They don’t push or pull, just rest there. A hand leaves your shoulder to come up to touch your chin, light, so light. Like a feather. Slowly, you look up, your eyes coming to land on John B.

His face is bloody, and one of his eyes has already started to swell shut, but they’re still the brightest things you’ve ever seen. Brighter than the moon, you think, and smile a little, loopy. John B’s features twist, and you realize his lips are moving, he’s trying to talk to you.

“I can’t–“ you croak out, and John B seems to understand you, because he stops trying to talk and instead moves to sit directly in front of you, in your space as he pulls your shaking hand, the one that’s still stuck in a fist, to his chest. You notice his shirt has been torn open, and though the bruises haven’t formed yet, you know from experience that his ribs must be killing him right now. But he presses your hand flat to his chest, over his heart, and holds it there, leaning in so that his forehead almost touches yours, so that you’re sharing the same air. His hair brushes your cheek, and normally you hate this, you hate touching other people, the feeling of their skin on yours, especially after a moment like this one. But somehow, John B is different. You don’t let yourself think about it too much, and instead close your eyes and focus on the feeling of his heartbeat beneath your palm. Strong, steady.

When you open them again, Pope and Kie have settled with you as well, flanking your sides but not touching, which you’re thankful for, because you don’t think you can handle other people touching you right now. Your skin is already itching from John B’s hands, and you slowly withdraw your hand, running it through your hair shakily. Sound has cleared up again, your ears deciding to work, but you don’t hear anything except for the gentle crash of the waves farther down the beach, and the low murmurs of Kiara and Pope’s voices. The rest of the partygoers seemed to have cleared out.

You glance around, lips pulling into a weary smile. “I guess we really know how to clear out a party, eh?” You say, hating how weak your voice sounds. But the other three give no indication that they think the same; Kiara huffs a laugh, shaking her head, while Pope makes a noise of amused exasperation. John B’s lips quirk into a smile, but he hisses in pain almost instantly, his hand coming up to rub at the tender swelling. Kiara makes a noise of sympathy.

“We gotta get you some ice,” she says, voice firm, and you smile at the authority in her voice, the note of finality. Kiara gets what she wants, whether it’s a cheap beer or permission to mother hen the shit out of someone. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

You’re not sure what the others talked about when you were indisposed, but there seems to have been some sort of discussion, because Pope goes to support John B, while Kiara stands over you, hands hanging loosely by her sides, not reaching out, but ready to if necessary. Her eyes are sharp as she watches you get to your feet, gazing at you as if she expects you to fall at any minute.

And suddenly, you realize just how tired you are. You’re familiar with this bone-deep weariness, as it usually follows adrenaline rushes, and you stumble, feet dragging in the sand. Kie is there in an instant. “Need help?” She asks, no judgement or hidden meaning.

You want to lean on her, take her up on her earnest offer, more because you don’t want to disappoint her than anything else. If you know anything about Kie, it’s that she loves helping, and you can see the nervous energy thrumming through her as she glances between you and John B, almost as if she’s vibrating with the desire to be of service. You wonder if she was born like that, or if it’s a product of being your friend.

You don’t like that thought, so you call out, “Hey, JB, what in the ever-loving fuck did you _do_ to make that dude so pissed?” You’re only half-joking, really.

John B stops from where he and Pope are a few steps ahead of you, turning back and lifting a shoulder in the approximation of a shrug. “My dad works with some of their dads. I wanted to know if they’d seen him recently,” he says nonchalantly. “I don’t even know who that _was_ , but he said something about my dad…” John B shakes his head. “It doesn’t even matter, ‘cause I punched him first.”

You whistle low. “Damn, John B. Next time, start a fight you think you can win.”

“Or wait till we’re there to back you up,” Pope adds, hefting John B’s arm more securely over his shoulders.

The four of you continue walking, your mind buzzing. You know that Big John leaves John B home alone a lot, but you never thought John B was too bothered by it. But if he’s asking around at parties of all places, maybe there’s something else going on.

You’ll ask him about it later. But for now, you focus on putting one foot in front of the other, trudging slowly but steadily behind John B and Pope. You block out the concern you can feel radiating from Kie at your side, from the glances Pope sends back to the two of you. Instead, you focus on John B, who’s head is hanging as he leans heavily on Pope, arm wrapped around his middle. You wonder what it’s like, to be able to trust someone that fully, to be able to let them support you like that. You’re not stupid – you know there’s something wrong with you, fundamentally. As sure as you’d known it back when you were seven and struggling to sound out the words in Miss H’s class, as when you were five and watching your mother walk away from you. Something’s not right with you, and it keeps you from doing the things you see that come so easily to people like John B. Leaning on someone. Trusting someone. _Touching_ someone.

You wish you could be gentle, give someone the same light, feather-like touches that you sometimes appreciate. But you can’t. You’ve only ever learned defense; how to swing at someone, or how to hold yourself together when someone swings at you.

But today was… different. Because you weren’t swinging for _you_ , you were swinging for John B, and you would’ve done the same if it was Pope or Kiara, no question about it. But the ache in your knuckles, the dried blood flaking off your hand, is for John B. And until you learn how to be gentle, you’ll keep swinging for him, or for Pope, or Kiara, because you love them. And because it’s what you know.

***

You had plans for your fourteenth birthday. One of the first times you’ve _ever_ had plans to celebrate, one of the first times you’ve ever looked _forward_ to celebrating. You, Kiara, John B and Pope were going to take the HMS Pogue, Big John’s old/new boat that John B had more or less appropriated the moment Big John brought it home. You were going to go fishing, go swimming, eat a picnic, all those goddam things that people seem to enjoy doing on their birthday. Hell, Kie even promised to make a cake.

So you find it bitterly ironic that when, for the first time in your life that you’ve actually looked forward to your birthday, you can’t even bring yourself to get out of bed. Hell, you can’t even really open your _eyes_ ; even the slightest bit of light hurts, the tiniest of movements sending bolts of pain through your skull. The most you can do is lay as still as possible, eyes closed, breathing shallowly and try not to cry from the pain.

You don’t even know what you did this time. Normally you have some idea, because hey, you’ll admit it, you can be kind of an asshole sometimes. But you honestly can’t pinpoint a direct action, something you said, hell, even a glance that could be taken the wrong way. You had been extra careful the past few days, largely because your ribs were still recovering from an altercation from last week, and because you wanted, for once in your life, to have fun on your birthday. To enjoy yourself. To not be hurting.

And look where that got you. There must’ve been something up last night, maybe something was going wrong at your dad’s work, maybe he’d just had a drink too many. Who knows. All that matters is that you got in his way, you stumbled when he shoved you and you slammed your head on the edge of the counter, and then again on the floor. You know your dad was shouting, but you can’t remember what he was saying, though it was probably just the usual stuff.

 _Worthless. Disgrace. Embarrassment. Quit fucking crying_.

All you can focus on is the pain in your head. It radiates from the base of your skull outwards, encompassing your neck and pounding on every square inch of your brain. You know you’re concussed; you’re nauseous, you threw up twice, and there are blank spots in your memory. You don’t know how you got into your room, into your bed, but you must’ve gotten there yourself because the chair is pressed against the door to prevent it from opening like it always is. There’s a now-thawed bag of peas laying next to you, a half-empty water bottle. Your phone has been buzzing, but the sound hurts your head and you can’t even look at the light, so you threw it across the room.

All you want is for the pain to fucking stop. To cease to exist. _You_ want to cease to exist. You know you’re not thinking clearly, but at the moment, you want to physically detatch from your body. You want to stop feeling.

And would that be such a bad thing? You hate pain, and it’s a constant in your life. You hate touch. You hate the feeling of someone’s skin on yours, no matter how insignificant. You can’t even hug your friends like a normal person, freak out when one of them brushes against you unexpectedly. All you want to do is be able to be _normal_ , but you can’t even manage that.

Your thoughts chase each other, spinning around and around in a dizzying manner. Tears slip out from beneath your clenched lids, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the pain or something else. Or both. Because it’s your fourteenth birthday, and your friends are probably wondering where you are and you can’t even tell them because _it hurts to look at your phone_.

You know that you’re out of it when you don’t even react to the sound of your doorknob rattling. Your dad normally never comes into your room unless you’ve _really_ fucked up, but the sound is usually enough to spike your pulse. But now, all you can do is groan as the rattle turns into a pounding on the door. Each knock reverberates like a hammer in your skull.

You pull your pillow over your face, blocking your ears, and are content to stay that way until you hear a voice. _John B’s_ voice. You’re sure you’re hallucinating, because you’ve _never_ invited John B over, have always made a point to keep him, and Kie and Pope by default, out of your house. Because you can’t fathom the idea of them being in the same building as your dad.

But the pounding continues, the panicked voice. “JJ, man, it’s me, John B! Open up!”

You turn, finally opening your eyes to stare at the door. The chair rattles in place but holds fast. You watched with dethatched interest as the door trembles violently. It sounds like John B threw himself against it.

“Come on, JJ, at least, like, make a sound or something so I know you’re not dead!” You want to laugh, or say something witty, but your brain is moving like molasses and you’re sure that if you open your mouth you’re going to vomit.

But John B won’t give up. And he’s being so _loud_. Even if it didn’t kill your head, you need him to stop. Because your dad doesn’t like it when you’re loud, especially after he’s been drinking. And you don’t want to think about your dad teaching John B that lesson the same way that he taught you.

You have to stop him, have to shut him up. And the only way to do that, apparently, is to show proof of life. So, in your muddled state of mind, you somehow drag yourself out of bed and stumble to the door. Each step feels tilted, like you’re walking on a ship, and you feel weightless. You grab onto your dresser to keep from floating away, and eventually make your way to the door.

Grunting, you shove the chair out of the way, and the door immediately flies open. You just barely move out of the way before it smacks you right in the face, and suddenly John B is in your room, his worried face inches from yours, and he’s moving so fast he’s practically vibrating, and talking at a speed that would rival auctioneers. For some reason, you find this hilarious, and start laughing.

“Dude,” you say, tongue feeling heavy in your mouth and John B’s eyes are bright, so bright you have to close yours. “Ever think of working at an auction house?” You watch as John B’s face twists in confusion, and then all goes dark.

You come to slowly. You still have a splitting headache, and your body still feels slightly disconnected, but there’s something cool draped across your forehead, and you’re lying on something that is much more comfortable than your bed. Slowly, you test out opening your eyes, and find that wherever you are is relatively dim; all the lights are off and the shades are drawn. It takes a moment, but soon your eyes adjust and you immediately know where you are; the _Chateau_ , more specifically, John B’s bed.

Careful not to actually move, you scan the room with your eyes. John B doesn’t seem to be in here, but just as you’re about to close your eyes again, the door opens softly, and John B comes in. He’s making an effort to stay quiet, obviously thinking that you’re still asleep, and you watch as he slowly clicks the door shut behind him before unloading an armful of stuff onto his desk.

“JB?” You croak. “How’re we in your house? What happened?” The last thing you remember is John B barging into your room, eyes wild. He must’ve gotten you here somehow, but you’re not sure if you even want to know.

John B jumps at your voice, his shoulders tensing, before he whips around, a grin breaking out over his face. “JJ! You’re awake! For real this time!”

You groan, lifting a hand to your face. There’s a washcloth draped across your forehead, which explains why you feel damp, but the coolness and light pressure also feel kind of nice, so you leave it there. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask. “’For real this time’?”

John B comes and sits at the edge of your bed. Well, his bed. Fuck, you’re tired. “Well, I think you have a concussion. And I read that you’re not supposed to like, let concussed people sleep, so I’ve been kind of waking you up every twenty minutes, but you never really _woke up_ , like, you’d grunt and try to push me away and stuff which I guess was good enough but you weren’t exactly coherent, like –”

“John B,” you interrupt. “Shut up.”

John B snaps his mouth closed like he insulted his own mother. “Right. Sorry.” You’re content to just exist in silence for the time being, but John B seems to have other plans, shifting in place and standing up from the bed and sifting through the items that he brought in and just _not relaxing_. You love John B to death but this is one of his fatal flaws; an inability to chill out. John B is the definition of movement, of energy, since the day you two met. It’s something you’ve never really understood but have learned to live with.

Rather than say anything, you watch your friend through slitted eyes. Though your head is still pounding, you don’t miss the tremble in John B’s hands, the dark bags beneath his eyes. The way that he’s rubbing his mouth, something he does when he’s trying to stop himself from talking. He looks exhausted.

You pat the bed weakly, and John B looks over at the noise. He _does_ look tired, worse than usual. His skin is pale, eyes dull, and you’re not sure if it’s the lighting in here or not but he looks… washed out. Like a shadow of himself.

“C’mere,” you say, and John B returns to the bed, sits gingerly on the edge. You pat the bed a little harder. “Lie down,” you order, and John B does, eyes wide. He’s still hugging the edge of the bed, body tense and ramrod straight, leaving a solid amount of space between the two of you, and you want to cry. “No,” you say. “Closer.”

You hear John B take a sharp breath, and the bed dips as he inches closer. He stops when your faces are just a breath away from each other, close but still not touching. You know how much he must be restraining himself right now, not touching you, how out of his nature this is. But he’s doing it for you, and you’re grateful.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” you say, forcing the words out even though they burn. Because this is something you hate, the idea that you need to be _rescued_ , that you’re not strong enough to take care of yourself. But you’re also not stupid, because this time, you really thought that Luke was going to kill you, either from the blow itself or from neglect, leaving you to succumb to your concussion alone in your room. But you know that John B will never hold this against you, will never use it as an example of why you’re weak or worthless. So the least that you can do is thank him, even though you’re not used to it, not used to having someone care enough to actually seek you out.

John B closes his eyes, and you realize his cheeks are wet. “I was so scared, JJ,” he says softly, then swallows. “When we didn’t hear from you, I thought… I don’t know what I thought. But I knew I had to come find you.” He opens his eyes, meets your gaze, and cracks a watery smile. “Happy birthday, by the way.” You huff out a semblance of a laugh but can’t find it in yourself to say much more. Your throat has become painfully tight, and you blink feverishly to keep the tears that formed when John B started talking from falling.

“How’d you… get me?” You ask once you get control of your voice. The _away from my dad_ went unspoken, but John B seemed to know what you meant.

“Well, first, I borrowed my dad’s van,” John B says, a bit sheepishly, and you grin at the thought of him hijacking the old thing and driving it carefully to your house. “And nobody answered the door at your house, so I kind of let myself in. Your dad was… asleep, from what I could tell, but when I couldn’t get your door open, I started to panic a little. And then, when you opened it, and said something about auctions and passed out, well, I _really_ freaked out. Like, I thought you were _dead_. But then you were still breathing, so I just grabbed you and brought you back here.”

You think about this for a moment, think about what must’ve gone through John B’s head when you passed out at his feet. “I said something about auctions?” You say instead. John B laughs softly.

“Yeah, I don’t know. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You glance up and meet his gaze. As always, he’s looking at you so damn earnestly, face so open you can read him like a book. That’s another constant about John B; he wears his emotions so plainly, available for anyone to see. He always has. And right now, you can see the exhaustion etched into his face, the weariness draped over him like a cloak. The look in his eyes, the way he keeps scanning you up and down, as if you’re going to disappear. The tension that still hasn’t left his body, even though you’ve all but melted into the mattress.

You think it’s probably the concussion, coupled with draining emotional experiences, that inspires you to reach for John B’s hand. You wrap your fingers around his, lightly, before you squeeze tight. He looks downright shocked, which makes sense, because for as long as the two of you have known each other, you can probably count on one hand the amount of times you initiated contact. It’s not something you like doing normally, but you watch as the simple act of taking John B’s hand causes the tension to bleed out of him. He sighs, his eyes fluttering shut, and the two of you lay there for a moment. You can almost forget the pain in your head as you watch John B finally calms down.

But of course, John B seems to only be capable of relaxing for a few minutes at a time, because he suddenly jack-knifes up, immediately ruining the serenity of the moment. You tense for a moment, startled by the sudden movement, but John B doesn’t even notice, having already rolled off the bed. He fiddles with something at his desk, and you hear the sound of paper crinkling, and just as suddenly as he got up, he turns to you, a big smile on his face. In his hand is a store-bought chocolatey pastry, which wouldn’t look immensely appetizing even if you weren’t dealing with concussion-induced nausea, but crammed in the center of it is a single birthday candle, which John B hasn’t lit yet.

You stare as John B approaches the bed again. “I know it’s no home-baked cake, but Kiara said she’ll come by tomorrow with one, but I figured that we couldn’t celebrate your birthday _without_ something, so –”

“Is that a… Little Debbie’s cupcake?” You ask incredulously, cutting him off. John B looks down at the thing in his hands and shrugs.

“Honestly, I have no idea, I just didn’t want you to have, like, nothing to commemorate your birthday…” He trails off, looking more unsure of himself with every second that passes.

“Well I fucking love Little Debbie, so get that shit over here,” you say, smiling. Something akin to relief breaks out across John B’s face, and he gently settles next to you, holding the little cake between the two of you.

“I didn’t light it, wasn’t sure if it would hurt your eyes or not,” John B explains as he gestures to the unlit candle.

“Probably for the best,” you say, grimacing. “But hey, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?”

You feel the bed shake as John B laughs, and you look over at him. He looks as tired as you feel. You have no idea what time it is, but you take the cake from him and place it on the table next to you.

“I’m exhausted,” you say. “Let’s eat when we wake up, yeah?”

John B shakes his head tiredly. “You can’t sleep… your concussion –”

“Don’t stress it,” you say. “I just need to lay here with my eyes closed for a bit. No sleeping, just resting, I promise.”

“Just resting,” John B repeats, his eyes drifting closed. “Got it.”

Satisfied, you close your eyes as well. John B had been scaring you, looking for the world like he’d been about to topple over. You wonder when the last time he slept was, when the last time he ate. You know Big John is away, because that’s usually when John B becomes more restless, full of jittery energy. He throws himself into action, rallying you and Kiara and Pope to tag along, which you always do, though sometimes it’s more with the intention to keep an eye on him, rather than just for the enjoyment of whatever he’s cooked up this time. He hates being alone almost as much as you hate being at home.

John B’s breath has started to even out, and you close your eyes, too. Your head is still throbbing, making your thoughts muddled and slow, and maybe a little more tender than you usually would allow yourself to be, because your throat is getting tight again and your eyes are growing moist. Because if John B didn’t come find you, you’re not sure what would have happened. And you’re not sure what to do now, because you’ve never thought of yourself as someone worth rescuing. If you couldn’t get yourself out of whatever mess you made, you probably deserved to be there. At least, that’s what you’ve put together from years of fending for yourself.

But you suppose that’s not exactly true. Because since the two of you met, John B has been there, as well as Pope and Kie. And while you may not always seek them out when things get bad, just knowing that they’ll be there when you’re able to get away, ready to surf or swim or fish or just lounge around, is a comfort.

You know you have issues, but you know your friends do, too. Pope is struggling to balance his parent’s expectations and his own desires, Kiara is working through her own issues with her identity as a kook and a pogue, though she never talks much about it. John B is… struggling to stay afloat, same as you, just in a different way. He is alone, desperately trying to find some semblance of stability, someone to latch onto and hold close, someone who won’t disappear on him. You are desperately trying to get _away,_ to push and press and do whatever you can to not get hurt.

But as you lay here next to John B, who clearly hasn’t slept in a long time, you decide that not everyone sees you as worthless, deserving of pain. And even though today is your fourteenth birthday, and you were supposed to be out on the water having fun with your best friends, you decide that as far as your birthdays have gone, this one isn’t half bad.

**Author's Note:**

> poor jj ... concussed on his birthday and he's j like 'eh it's been worse'
> 
> I'm not sure how pleased I am with the way this turned out... i had more ideas for scenes to put in this fic so might post some of those later but just wanted to share this before I overthought it and didn't! 
> 
> also jj being touch adverse and john b being touch starved just sort of seemed interesting so i had some fun with that.. let me know what you think! 
> 
> please leave a kudo or a comment if you feel so inclined !


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